


Red Haze

by Lothiriel84



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As soon as he was out of the mental facility, he went straight to his shell of a house and spent the next few days trying to retrace each of the steps he'd taken on the night his family was murdered. - Cover image courtesy of aprilvolition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Haze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SteeleSimz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SteeleSimz/gifts).



> AU to _Red Dawn_ , written for the Forum Anniversary Countdown on Paint It Red. Also a belated birthday present for SteeleSimz.

 

As soon as he was out of the mental facility, he went straight to his shell of a house and spent the next few days trying to retrace each of the steps he'd taken on the night his family was murdered.

He remembered throwing his keys onto the small table near the entrance along with a pile of letters, then moving his daughter's tricycle out of the way before heading upstairs. A smile had frozen on his lips as soon as he'd seen the note taped to the main bedroom door, and his hand had trembled on the doorknob. His last memory was the red face on the wall, smiling at him in the dim light of a bedside lamp.

After that, everything faded into a red haze. He couldn't remember the butchered bodies of his wife and daughter lying on the bed, nor anything that had happened ever since.

There was a gap in his memory, a dark hole that threatened to swallow his entire existence. What if he was the one who'd murdered his family after all? What if he was Red John himself?

He'd heard before of people killing their beloved ones without remembering anything at all later on. Perhaps he'd taken a step too far, trying to see the world through the serial killer's eyes had awakened a monster sleeping in the depth of his soul. There were dark things inside there; things he'd never told anyone, not even his wife.

When he was a boy he often cried himself to sleep at night after his Dad had beaten the living daylights out of him. Alex Jane had started drinking soon after the death of his wife, and he always ended up venting his frustration on his son. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for young Patrick to wish that his father would die as well, so that he would be free from the hell that was his life those days.

The happiness he'd found when he'd escaped with Angela hadn't lasted long, she'd started begging him to quit his psychic business as soon as she'd discovered she was pregnant with Charlotte. However, conning people was what he did for a living; he'd been honing his skills ever since his childhood, there wasn't another profession he could do so well. And he wasn't anywhere ready to give up on his luxurious house in Malibu, nor the standard of living they were leading there.

They'd had a serious argument the night before she died; Angela didn't want him to go to that talk show, and he'd been cruel enough to insinuate that she was jealous of his popularity. When he'd left for the interview he'd kissed Charlotte goodbye, but his wife had barely allowed him a quick peck on the cheek.

And now they were both dead, while he still wondered why he hadn't been brave enough to follow them wherever they were now.

He grabbed a bottle of tequila he'd bought on his way to Malibu and proceeded to numb himself into a drunken stupor, before he collapsed onto the mattress right under the smiley face that was slowly fading on the wall. That night he dreamt of the moon gleaming over the smooth surface of a steel blade, of sticky blood dripping from his gloved fingers; and he couldn't wash it away, no matter how hard he tried.

 

xxx

A week later he dragged himself to the CBI headquarters. He was vaguely aware that he was a mess, unshaved and with his shirt rumpled, but he just didn't care.

There he waited until a petite brunette took pity on him and tactfully explained that he couldn't stay; they had work to do, and would get back to him as soon as there was a break on the case.

And even though he knew they wouldn't, he couldn't help but nod when he met the woman's sympathetic eyes. She felt sorry for him, genuinely wanted to offer her support; he was sure that she understood somehow, and on the spur of the moment he wrapped his fingers around her elbow.

"I need your help," he said softly, hating the vulnerability in his own voice.

The woman stared at him for a moment with her big green eyes, trying to work out whether it was some kind of trick on his part. In the end she bit her lip and lead the way out of the bullpen.

"May I offer you a drink?" she asked when they were comfortably ensconced at the coffee shop round the corner.

"A cup of Earl Grey would be the perfect thing, thank you."

He didn't complain when the waitress brought him a beverage that surely didn't deserve the name of tea. A grimace curled his lips as he took a small sip of it, then put the cup back onto the matching saucer.

"What do you know about Red John?"

The brunette that was sitting in front of him raised a suspicious eyebrow. "I'm afraid I can't divulge information on an ongoing investigation, sorry."

He shook his head impatiently. Of course he wanted to get to the serial killer and cut him open if he was indeed responsible for the death of his family, but that wasn't the crux of the matter right now.

"Are you positive that he's been the one to do the deed?"

The CBI agent furrowed her brow as if she couldn't comprehend his question, then he saw a flash of sympathy cross her face as she finally managed to read between the lines.

"We've double-checked all of your movements, Mr. Jane. There's no way you can be the killer, if that's of any consolation to you."

The far off ghost of a smile hovered about his lips for a moment. "It is, thank you."

However, when he stood up and made to leave, he felt a small but strong hand on his arm. The woman searched his eyes for a moment, until she seemingly made up her mind at last.

"I've heard that you're a psychic. We could use your insights on the case."

He jerked back as if her hand was burning. "There's no such thing as psychics," he all but seethed, marginally surprised when his interlocutor didn't even blink.

"Whatever. We could use your skills all the same."

That was when he understood what she was trying to do. The woman seemed determined to save him, no matter what; and she was definitely more stubborn than anyone could guess at first sight.

There had to be something about her past to make her act this way; as likely as not she'd had a troubled childhood, even an abusive parent maybe.

He pretended to consider her offer for a moment before agreeing wholeheartedly. That was what he'd been looking forward right from the start, a way to gain access to the case files and work out things for himself.

"Thank you," he said again, and this time he really meant it.

"I still have to talk to my boss though," she warned him; didn't want to give him false hopes, because she was considerate like that.

"I'm sure you'll be able to persuade him, Ms. Lisbon."

It took a lot of effort on his part to remember her name; ordinarily his mind was a fortress, but the recent tragedy had shaken the foundations of his memory palace and he was still struggling to pick up the pieces.

Then she offered him a warm smile, and he found himself smiling back in spite of himself.

His eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner. Only then he fished for the keys in his pocket and slowly walked to his car, feeling like he could breathe again at long last.


End file.
